


Will Rise Again

by coldflashwavebaby



Series: Coldflashwave Week [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, M/M, OT3, coldflashwave week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:12:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8183128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldflashwavebaby/pseuds/coldflashwavebaby
Summary: Len never could have predicted Barry, though. The young boy with the sun in his smile and no memory of anything that happened before he was eleven. “Who’s to say you’re not Prince Bartholomew?”Coldflashwave Week-Day One: Fairy Tale (Anastasia counts, okay?)





	

He hadn’t meant for this to happen. All he’d wanted was 10,000 rubles, and an actor good enough to get it for him. The plan was fool proof—get an actor that favored Prince Bartholomew Allen, teach him to play the part well enough to convince the once Knyaz, or Grand Duke, of Russia Joe West that he was the real thing, and then collect the reward.

            Len never could have predicted Barry, though. The young boy with the sun in his smile and no memory of anything that happened before he was eleven.

            “Who’s to say you’re _not_ Prince Bartholomew?” He’d told him, throwing an arm over his shoulder as they stared up at the portrait of the eleven-year-old prince.

Catching on, Mick nodded along. “You were eleven when you lost everything. So was he.”

“Haven’t you ever thought about it?”

Barry stared up in awe and shrugged. “I mean, sure. Every lost, lonely orphan dreams of being royalty.”

“Some orphan is.”

Barry glanced Mick’s way, his teeth gnawing at his lip in thought. Eventually, the boy agreed. The best part, at the time, was that Len and Mick didn’t even have to share their plan with him. They could _actually_ convince him that he was the prince, and Barry would believe it.

But then, the weirdness started to happen. Like, when they got on the train to Germany, and something blew out the bridge and trapped their car to the empty engine. Or when they got onto the boat from to Paris, and Barry, in a sleepwalking fit, climbed up on the deck during a storm and nearly threw himself overboard. If it hadn’t been for Mick waking up and grabbing him, Barry would have been dead. Once he dragged the boy back into their cabin, he started screaming about ‘The Allen Curse’ and someone called ‘Eobard Thawne’. After he calmed down though, he hadn’t been able to tell Len or Mick anything about his dream.

            Despite the strangeness of their journey, it had been very productive. Barry picked up the history of the royals, the proper edict, and most importantly, the life of Bartholomew Allen. Somewhere along the way, Len noticed Mick watching Barry differently. And, somewhere along the way, he started doing the same. Barry was something special—he was compassionate and kind, while at the same time being bold and brilliant.

            And he wanted to tell Barry about the con— _God, did he want to—_ but every time he tried, Barry would look at him with such trust…he couldn’t.

            Then, they made it to the house of Joe’s daughter, Iris, where Barry had to prove that he was absolutely, without a doubt, Bartholomew Henry Allen. For the first twenty questions, he did almost perfect. He answered all of them correctly and without missing a beat. Len and Mick shared a look across the room. _They actually had this._

Until Iris asked one last question. “When the rioters took the palace, how did you, Joe, and I escape?”

            Damn. Mick shot him a glare, and they both knew they were screwed. They hadn’t taught him that. They never told anyone what happened that night.

            But Barry’s forehead crinkled in an all-too-adorable way, and he tilted his head. “There were two boys…well, they were older than me, but not soldiers. They were…kitchen boys. One fought off the rioters, while the other one moved a wall…”

            Len’s heart slammed to a stop. He remembered vividly what happened that night—he and Mick had been trying to escape when they spotted the young prince running back into his room with Joe West frantically following, dragging his daughter by the hand behind him. The shouts from the next corridor over told them that the rioters were getting closer. If they got their hands on the prince, they would string him up and rip him to pieces. So, Mick and Len both ran after them, Mick watching the door while Len showed them the secret servant’s exit. Even when the rioters finally got past Mick, Len refused to tell them where the three had gone. After that, he’d never given what actually happened to the prince another thought. Until now.

            He could absentmindedly hear Iris telling them that her father was taking her to the Russian Ballet as an early birthday present, “Just in case the three of you stop by.” Len rushed out of the house. He needed air. Barry was the prince—Barry was Bartholomew Allen. The door behind him opened and slammed shut, and he knew that Mick was having a small panic attack, too.

            “Lenny…”

            “I know.”

            “But, Len…”

            “I KNOW!” Len clenched his fists. He took a deep breath. Then another. And another.

            Mick moved to stand beside him. “What the hell are the odds? We actually found him—the _real_ prince.” He blew out a breath. “What are we going to do?”

           

            The answer, of course, was leave. Princes, after all, don’t hook-up with kitchen boys-turned-con men. They would reunite him with Joe West, and then be gone. That was the new plan, anyway. Until Len snuck in to Joe’s box at the ballet after Iris snuck away.

            The moment Joe’s eyes fell on him, he knew that the Grand Duke knew who he was and what he was there for. “Oh, hell no.” The man growled, rising to his feet. “I can’t believe this. You _dare_ come here while I’m spending time with my daughter to pull some con.”

            Len cleared his throat. “Mr. West, I think you have the wrong idea…”

            “No!” Joe stepped into his space, finger pointed in his face. “I have searched for Bartholomew for fourteen years. He was like a son to me. I have had hundreds of con men just like you bringing in young men made up to look like him to collect the reward, and I am done.”

            “But you don’t understand—”

            “I know who you are. Leonard Snart. You and your friend, Rory, were holding auditions in St. Petersburg for actors to pretend to be Bartholomew. Now, leave me and my daughter alone and get the hell out of here, before I throw you over the side of this balcony.” Two guards came in behind him and grabbed him by the arms. The next thing Len knew, he was being thrown out the door, right at the feet of an enraged Barry. Behind the young man, Mick was pinching his nose where Barry must have punched him.

            “Barry, I don’t know how much you hea—”

            “I heard everything. EVERYTHING.” Len had never seen Barry so furious before. His eyes were flaring, his nostrils flared, and his teeth clenched. “You _used_ me!” He snarled. “BOTH of you! I am such an idiot. I actually thought that I…that we…”

            He turned to leave, and Len scrambled to his feet. He grabbed him by the arm. “Wait, Barry. It started out that way, but I swear it’s not like that anymore. You are the real Bartholome—” The rest of his sentence was halted by Barry drawing back him arm and burying his fist into his nose.

            _Damn, what did they teach those kids in Russian orphanages?!?_

Luckily, his nose wasn’t broken, but by the time he recovered, Barry was gone.

 

            Len didn’t care anymore about rewards. He knew Mick didn’t either. Barry needed to know who he was, and be reunited with his remaining family. Granted, hijacking the Grand Duke’s car and driving him to the apartment Barry was staying in probably wasn’t the best way to gain the man’s trust, but they were desperate and criminals.

            “You two don’t give up, do you?” Joe rumbled. Len and Mick shared a look.

            “Not really.” Mick responded.

            “You need to see him.” Len reached into the satchel he and Mick had carried with them for years—ever since that night. Inside was a small trinket box that Len had found beside him when he woke up on the floor of the prince’s bedroom; a prize he’d kept all this time. When he pulled it out, Joe froze, his eyes locked on the gold box.

            “Bartholomew’s music box…” The Grand Duke whispered, taking it from him like it was delicate. “I gave it to him for his eleventh birthday…how did you…?”

            “He’s been lost and alone for fourteen years.” Len interrupted. “You’ve at least had your daughter; he has no one. Maybe he needs you as much as you need him.”

            As he watched Joe walk into the apartment, he knew Barry was going to be okay. He had a family now. What he’d always wanted. Len and Mick both climbed out of the car and headed down the street towards the nearest bar. They were both going to need a drink.

 

            They didn’t take the money. Len told himself that it was because he didn’t want to get tangled in any family stuff. In reality, he couldn’t take it. And honestly, he couldn’t face Barry again. Mick went to the Grand Duke’s house to pass along the message, and when he came back, he said that Barry had been there, dressed stunningly in royal garbs, still upset with them. Len just nodded. He purchased their tickets for Russia the next day. It was best for both of them to just go home.

            But before they even left for the station the next day, Len’s eye caught the front page of the paper declaring Barry’s welcome back ball. Suddenly, Len knew he and Mick needed to be there.

            When they arrived, Barry was nowhere to be found. They did, however, run into Iris, who told them that Barry went outside for some air. They finally found him at the bridge behind the back garden, sprawled out on the ground in front of a crazed looking man dressed in all yellow.

            Before even Len could react, Mick was rushing the guy. He tackled him to the ground, but the man was fast. And apparently magical if the way he made the bridge fall apart under Barry’s feet and the way one of the statues came to life and attacked him meant anything.

            Mick climbed to his feet and ran to catch Barry’s hand before he fell into the Seine. With all of his strength, he pulled Barry back onto the bridge. The man, not to be deterred, waved his hand to the side, throwing Mick back so his head cracked against the stonework. Len ran from the statue towards Barry, but it knocked him away, too far for him to really help. Barry, though, had apparently taken charge of the situation himself.

            There was a vial on the ground of yellow light under his foot. From the way the man was acting, it was important. “This is for my family,” Barry added pressure, and the vial cracked. “This is for Mick and Len,” he broke it some more. “And this is for me.” The glass shattered. The light erupted from under Barry’s foot, and Len turned away. When he looked back, the man was gone, and Barry was kneeling over Mick.

            Len pulled himself to his feet and rushed to their sides. He sighed with relief. Mick was alive. Barry was alive.

            He closed his eyes. “Barry, I’m sor—”

            He was interrupted by lips pressing against his. When Barry pulled back, he was blushing a deep scarlet. “Joe told me that you two didn’t take the money. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you.”

            Before Len could respond, Mick was waking up with a groan. “Where’s my kiss? I almost died.”

            Barry laughed—loud and joyful—and he leaned down to kiss the other man.

Len sighed happily. This was going to be a wonderful beginning.  


End file.
